The scent of smoke comforts me.
The act itself does not.
But isn’t that the way of things:
that we find beauty in the tragedy
until there is fatality and
we are left looking
at our own mortality like it
is a glass orb
we are cradling
in the palm of our hand.
There is nothing beautiful
in blackened lungs.


So you call me a hypocrite;
hold me up to your mouth and
watch me dangle from your lips.
Called me breath-taking
just to make my lungs constrict—-
but before I digress,
let me tell you there is nothing
gorgeous about a girl
whose lips turned blue
a slave to not nicotine,
but you:
is it’s own kind of sickness.


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